Alive with the Glory of Love
by deactivated account 999
Summary: You see, there is THIS boy and THAT boy; a party, a song, and Ferb doesn't even knows what hit him. High School AU. Rocker!Ferb/Jock!Phineas. Slash.
1. Dance Inside

Every author gets to write one super cliché with extra cheese High School AU, right? _Right_? Well, this is mine. I was really missing the fandom, and sort of got stuck while writing 'Scrapbook', so yeah.

All mistakes are my own, though, does anyone wants to volunteer for beta-reading? I pay cookies and love.

**Claim:**Punk!Rocker!Ferb/Popular!Jock!Phineas.

**Warnings:** Obvious slash is obvious. Smut. Alcohol. AU. OCs.

**Things I own:** A gallery of Abercrombie photo-shots in my pc, tequila bottles, vodka, the All-American Rejects' "Dance Inside" in my iPod, legally purchased on iTunes. Ronnie, Gabe and Scott, but they're really not that important.

**Things I don't own: **Phineas. Ferb. Anyone and Everyone and Everything else mentioned in this story that has anything whatsoever to do with D*sney.

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**Alive With The Glory of Love.**

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**.**

You see, the deal with Ferb is that he likes girls.

He really does. He likes their coloured lips, their hair as they brush it out of their faces; the way they smell, the way they smile at him, the way they sway like liquid bodies on the dance floor to the rhythm of the music's heartbeat.

Most of the time, however, the level of attention he gets from the girls is low, but it really doesn't bother him. Furthermore, he'd dare to say the low level of attention he is used to get from the girls could be _mostly_ his fault. They've said something about his quietness, something about saying rude things when holding a conversation on autopilot.

So even though Ferb can recognize his attraction for the female gender and accept it as a fact, he is also able to acknowledge the time, money and effort a girls seems to need on a daily basis. How high maintenance two or three former girlfriends had been had more or less convinced Ferb that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't cut out got a long term relationship (yet). He'd thought _maybe in college, maybe after college_, maybe then he'd find the one who'd invade his mind and shake his world, the one whose eyes would make him melt without six shots of vodka running thought his blood stream.

Which is sort of his current situation.

The girl whose throat he is currently sticking his tongue into does not makes him feel any of this. Sure, there's the heat, and sure, he can't wait to finish climbing up the stairs to he-does-not-care-who's second floor and throw her into he-does-not-care-who's parents' bedroom, get rid of her obnoxious red and golden cheerleader outfit and do things to her that should not be done to a lady – but it's only that. Ferb knows he won't be thinking of her tomorrow, won't be calling her tomorrow. Hell, he'll even be lucky if he can recognize her next Monday out of the twelve, something-teen girls who parade around the school wearing that exact same uniform.

So she shoves her hand down the front of his tight jeans and he squeezes her ass under that obscenely short skirt of hers. She'll probably try and talk to him if she sees him around in the hallways, and he knows he'll turn her down as gently as possible. So she runs her tongue over the roof of his mouth and he is about to lift her up, force her to straddle him so he can finish climbing up the goddamn stairs and very respectfully screw the living daylights out of her when–

"There you are, son of a bitch!"

–he is suddenly pulled back and away from the cheerleader chick and her amazing hands doing amazing things down the front of his jeans, a pair of hands roughly turning him around and shaking him violently, a voice screaming at him, and he can barely make out what it's trying to tell him.

He blinks once or twice, his dilated pupils slowly accommodating to the lights of the room, and he looks around disoriented, like he is seeing the place first time. The party is wild. There is a lot of alcohol and if you know the right people to ask, quite a variety of illegal substances too. At least two more couples making out on the stairs, in various stages of undress, and probably the whole Danville High population crowded into someone's upper-high-class living room.

"I've been looking for you like mad, you fucker!" Scott –his band mate– yells, black hair falling into his eyes."We were supposed to start playing _eons_ ago!"

It takes Ferb a second or seven to process what Scott tells (yells at) him, look around the room, place the makeshift stage in the middle of a sea of dancing bodies. Ronnie and Gabe are already there, guitars plugged, drums in place, microphones on their respective mic stands.

Ferb remembers the only reason he's ever invited to these parties in the first place and kisses the cheerleader chick good-bye.

.

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Danville is a small town in the middle of nowhere.

There is a wall-mart, a tiny shopping mall, a record store, vintage shops, a drive-in theatre and a skating ring – all spread around in the middle of green areas; suburb houses with big backyards.

And everyone just sort of hopes to get out someday.

.

.

"_You_ _don't have to move, you don't have to speak… Lips for biting_."

Once upon a time, popularity didn't mean anything more than who had the best Pokemon card and who brought the coolest stuff to Show-And-Tell. Once upon a time it didn't matter that Ferb's mum spent too much time at the hospital or that he preferred to spend recess time playing his guitar alone in the classroom. Nobody made fun of him because he was a head taller than everybody else or because he didn't speak much. Once upon a time, Ferb Fletcher went to North Chelsea Elementary School.

Eventually though, eventually these things start to matter. Eventually Ferb's mum passes out and he moves to the US with his dad, where kids make fun of his accent and call him an eurofag.

"_You're staring me down, a glance makes me weak… Eyes for striking_."

Eventually life changes. Eventually Ferb finds people he can hang out with after school, and eventually they start a band. They play at different parties and eventually everyone in the tight niche of the familiarity of Danville High School forgets about the new one and eventually they leave him alone.

Eventually, life moves on. And as this happens, all the little once-upon-a-time Elementary School kids find their place, their group of friends with the same shared interests. And eventually that's how things work out–

"_Now I'm twisting up when I'm twisted with you… Brush so lightly._" Scott presses his cheek against his and sings the next line with him, "_And times trickles down and I'm breathing for two…"_

– Except they don't.

"_Squeeze so tightly_."

Except there is always a better group with better kids; special kids. The popular group that slowly begins forming in eighth grade, the one with the prettiest girls and the loudest guys, the ones with that extra little… Something. The ones like Isabella, with her perfect body and gorgeous eyes, and Baljeet, who effortlessly excels at everything and anything, and Phineas, with a smile you could make millions off of it if it could be mass-produced as an anti-depressant, and Buford, the football star, and Django, the artistic prodigy.

And eventually, _that's_ how things work out.

"_I'll be fine… You'll be fine. This moment seems so long_."

High School (social) life, Ferb finds out, is not worth giving a damn so he doesn't, so he keeps his head high and his expectations low. So he studies hard, parties hard and sings his heart out. And eventually, that's how things work out for him.

"_Don't waste now, precious time…_" He presses his lips against the microphone, a bead of sweat running down the line of his hair down his neck, "_We'll dance inside the song._"

Singing up on a stage is always like jumping off a cliff. Liberating. There are no pretenses, no bullshit, no inhibitions. Nobody telling him to stay in his place, no status-quo. It's just him and Scott, faces close as they share a mic on The All-American Reject's _Dance Inside_'s chorus, and the somehow comforting beat of Ronnie's drums behind his back and Gabe's bass, dictating a subtle rhythm for the crowd to move to.

And it feels amazing.

"_What_ _makes the one to shake you down? Each touch belongs to each new sound…_"

Far back, behind all of the people dancing at the front of the stage he catches the sight of Danville High's very own A-List crowd, lounging on the living room's couches as if they were ready for an Abercrombie photo-shot, looking perfectly disheveled and sweaty. He sees Buford's lap full of Ginger and Holly in their skin tight cheerleader outfits, feeding him alcohol as if he were a dehydrating man in the middle of the desert, Baljeet's back pressed flush against Buford's side even though he is making out with Addison in a classy, yet still exhibitionistic manner, Django and some other guys from the Football team showing up to hit on the rest of the cheerleaders, Isabella abandoning all pretenses of being coy and dropping herself on Phineas' lap; all of them either making or recounting weekend plans for a party at Isabella's mansion or hitting the beach for surfing and Django's dad famous bonfires.

"_Say now you want to shake me too, move down to me, slip into you…_"

It is in the middle of this particularly explicit line that Ferb catches a pair of sky-blue eyes looking up at him –a surprise in and of itself since it seemed it was against some universal law that anyone in this particular group got excited because of a high school band–, narrowing with a grin instead, lips moving to sing along this and the following lyrics, and Ferb feels a rush of skepticism running trough him.

You see, the deal with Phineas Flynn is that he is a gifted kid, and people always gravitate towards him like Pooh Bear to honey. Phineas Flynn is special, Phineas is something to be shown around like a price horse, Phineas is running his hands trough the cheerleader's Captain silky black hair and singing along _Dance Inside_ like he is singing along the radio for a milli-moment and–

"_You sink in my mind and you shed through your skin; touch sight tastes like fire_."

–Then Isabella is throwing her arms around him and kissing his neck and Phineas breaks eye contact, goes back to being just another sweaty and perfect body in an Abercrombie photo-shot Ferb analyzes just for the hell of it.

Suddenly there is Scott's arm around his waist and Scott's cheek pressed against his as they share a mic, the females in the crowd shouting in approval at the teasing physical contact display accompanying the next explicit line, "_Hands do now what eyes no longer defend... Hands to fuel desire..._"

Ferb sings the rest of the song with his eyes closed.

.

.

"I love that song."

It takes Ferb a moment to realize that the rich voice with a hint of amusement is Phineas', another to realize it is being directed to him.

Phineas' voice has that smooth quality to it, Ferb finds out subconsciously, the one that brings to mind images of creamy melted chocolate; milk and honey and caramel, melting and smooth and burning gently down his throat as it washes through you. Ferb's, on the other side, sounds like he just left a Backstreet-Boys-meets-the-Jonas-Brothers concert, rough with the strain of hours of screaming of the high-pitched variety.

That is probably why, when he opens his mouth to answer, he finds himself flinching at the sound of his own voice, saying the first thing that comes to his mind. "It's about sex."

Phineas' amused smile is ten times more thrilling than his voice, and Ferb knows he must be staring (and really drunk) when Phineas chuckles lightly, hugging his slender figure with his arms because it's getting cold, his Captain jacket hanging loose over his shoulders.

"Yeah," he says, and Ferb nods a brushing-off nod, his alcohol-driven mind too tired and fuzzy to try to figure out why the Abercrombie kid is speaking to him, and most importantly why he is not leaving, why he is, instead, sliding his fingers over Ferb's and gently taking the tequila bottle out of his hand, letting his fingers linger for just a little longer than necessary, taking a long swig and returning it with the same unnecessary contact. "I know."

It sort of gets awkwardly silent after that, for Ferb at least, because the world would probably implode and end with fireworks and all before that particular Abercrombie kid looks like he is feeling awkward, and Phineas' hip is bumping against Ferb's and he looks like he is about to say something else, before Isabella and the rest of the photo-shot kids storm into the kitchen and Phineas is distracted; right before they start yelling something about going to the beach to see the sunrise and before Isabella clings to Phineas' arm and drags him along, as if Ferb was just as invisible as the air around him.

"See you," Phineas says over his shoulder, and Ferb watches his perfectly freckled face grinning before he turns and laughs at something Buford says, his arm carelessly thrown around Isabella's shoulders as they walk out of the house through the backyard door.

"See you." Ferb mumbles to himself, long after the Abercrombie photo-shot kids, better known as Danville High's Football and Cheerleaders teams –the, dare he say, very original _Wildcats_–, walk out of the kitchen, leaving him and his tequila bottle alone.

And that's how they begin.

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_r&r._


	2. Slaughterhouse Five

The voices in my head are giving me those 'Quit While You're Ahead' vibes. This was going to go up earlier... But then Life got in the way and, well, the rest is history.

This story is a labour of love. Or insanity. Or stupidity. I'm willing to bet money on the last two.

**Claim:**Punk!Rocker!Ferb/Popular!Jock!Phineas.

**Warnings:** Obvious slash is obvious_. _Smut. Alcohol. AU. OCs.

**Things I own:** A flask and hot chocolate, a bunch of unfinished school assignments, The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde and Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut. Also, a strong opinion on classic literature and a lot more inside jokes than you'd think. Ronnie, Gabe and Scott, Mr. Weinberg and Miss LeFèvre, but they're really not that important.

**Things I don't own:**A farm. Phineas. Ferb. Anyone and Everyone and Everything else mentioned in this story that has anything whatsoever to do with D*sney.

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><p><strong>Alive With The Glory of Love.<strong>

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**.**

On Friday morning, he has to help his dad with the farm.

Instead, he squeezes his hot chocolate flask between his fingers, tries to transfer some warmth to his freezing bones. Feels the aluminium against his numbed fingertips with a metallic smoothness. The sun is just beginning to stain the night sky orange and Ferb, who is past shivering and entering the realm of hypothermia, waits quietly.

Sitting up on the barn's roof since five a.m. is probably one of the stupidest things he has ever done.

It is right there on top of the Stupidest Things He Has Ever Done list with walking around the school in only nerd glasses and tight black boxers and driving his dad's car through the garage door – the only difference being that nobody dared him to sit up here and freeze his ass off so that makes him even more stupid than he already is.

He tries to remember why the bloody hell he is even here to begin with, hazily recalls lying in bed at four in the morning wondering what a real sunrise looked like. At four in the morning a lot of his ideas make sense.

God, he is so damn stupid when he is tired.

School starts in an hour and the air is icy and clear and it burns in his lungs and he still has to take care of the horses, feed them and brush them and double check doors and locks, collect the eggs in the nesting boxes. His dad is in charge of the vegetable garden, which is mostly what the whole farm consists of, really, even if he still insists in having a corny, red-and-white barn full of straw and hen feathers and an old pickup truck, probably more for the farm facade's sake than real necessity.

The town outskirts stretch his farmyard in front of him for hectares like the goddamn Kent farm, and Ferb rolls his eyes because he remembers his old Chelsea friends (looking like a bunch of eight graders, like the last time he saw them) telling him that small towns in the US surely where not like the stereotypical (yes, they did know that word) small towns they knew from the telly, that it would probably be great to move to a new school where he did not have to wear uniforms and where he'd know everyone, that it'd be great to move to a house with a huge backyard covered in green grass to run through and tall trees to climb to.

_Fucking cliché_, he thinks with a smile as he watches the sun rise, and if he squints, everything is going up in flames.

.

.

As he is hastily shoving his books inside his worn out school bag, hair still wet from the quick shower and running out of time, his dad tells him that later that afternoon they're going to visit a friend of his and _you're really going to like her, don't give me that look,_ so Ferb suspects by the way Laurence avoids his eyes and reeks of old-fashioned cologne that his friend is a woman friend and not really just a friend.

He still does not know how to feel about that particular fact, but somehow finds himself thinking up excuses not to go.

I don't think last night's frozen pizza was such an amazing idea.

Sorry, dad. I've got a hell of a lot of homework.

Is it me, or it is freezing here? 101.5 degrees? This thermometer has to be wrong.

(Replace mum and you'll be fucking dead to me.)

He settles himself for trying to get into detention, even if he is not sure why, he would rather cut his fingertips with sharp paper than spending his afternoons once again in detention, thank you very much, he's got enough of that since last semester when he and Scott tried to get Mr. Weinberg's car into the classroom and got stuck and caught in the process.

When he walks into his next class the bell rings and a rumpled looking substitute stumbles into the room, apologizing for getting the wrong room number from the office and asking if anyone could tell her what the assignment was from last night so she can collect it.

"Please?" she adds in a small voice. It is bordering on pathetic when she scans the room and is met with a few giggles. Some girls at the front, Isabella, Holly and what's-her-name don't even bother paying attention to her and start talking loudly.

"Anyone?" she says desperately, trying to raise her voice above the growing clamor.

Ferb glances over his iPod and is met with the back of a red haired head and he did not even notice when Redhead had walked in and taken his usual seat.

"Nothing," Gabe tells her, just as Ferb says, "Respond to the questions at the back of the workbook."

Her head snaps to Ferb and she smiles in palpable relief. Showing that much emotion is a big mistake in a classroom full of teenagers, but he doesn't tell her that. "Thank you! Can everyone get out their responses so I can collect them?"

Ferb does not actually care about the assignment. At all. This class' teacher lets them turn in all the assignments they didn't during the last week before midterms, and he works better under pressure. He isn't sure why he tells her what the assignment is. It's, just- He suddenly thinks Abercrombie kid probably spent an hour at the library typing it up or researching or whatever it is he does to get an A on freaking everything in this class. He can't even think of a logical reason to why it is totally worth the glares and the grumbles of _suck up_ when he places the kid's homework on top of his own and hands it in for the substitute to collect.

"Fuck you" he mouths at Gabe, after the sub has turned her back. He has a feeling that his ass is going to be kicked in the near-future.

The rest of the period is spent playing hangman with Gabe while talking to Ronnie whenever Gabe gets stuck on a letter (about every two seconds).

The substitute has long since given up on trying to make the class do the assignment. She also makes the mistake of asking Ferb for help "controlling your peers, because they really do seem to like you". Ferb, who is on autopilot, really, calls her something that makes Ronnie smack him on the back of the head ("She's a _lady_!") and Redhead turns in his seat and gives him a surprised look that Ferb notices all the same.

He is pretty sure that, judging by the way the sub is glaring a hole into the back of his head, she hates him as much as his full-time teachers do. Maybe the faculty can bond over it during lunch. He'd love to help her make some friends.

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He stands in front of the principal's office and looks up at that door.

Already Ferb wants to tie a noose around his neck and hang from the lamppost outside the window. Too bad he actually has the nerve to knock on the door and actually wait. Cutting his fingertips with really sharp paper sounds altogether more promising right now. Maybe he had crossed a line. Or two. Maybe.

After an awkward minute, he hears the sound of someone turning the lock, the creak of the never oiled hinges.

Ferb opens his mouth, expecting Miss LeFèvre, the principal's hot secretary to be standing before him. Instead, he finds himself staring at a freckled face and blue eyes, surprised like his at first, smiling with some sort of mischief the next second.

Ferb shoves his hands into his pockets. Phineas Flynn says nothing for a moment, deciphering the scene before him with an analytical sense, grinning broadly a moment after. "Come in."

He steps aside so Ferb can enter the small waiting room, shuts the door behind him, opens the book he'd had in his hands. Miss LeFèvre is there in her desk, typing into her laptop and Ferb can't help sending a small glance down her indecently low-cut dress.

"He will meet you in a second, darling." She tells Ferb in her deep, marked French accent, and Ferb kind of likes her beyond her looks because she has an accent too. It makes him feel sort of silly. He nods in acknowledge.

He rakes his fingers through his hair, though, absentmindedly tears off the black jacket he had been wearing, plops down on one of the leather couches. It is possibly the most uncomfortable thing he had ever had to sit on besides the barn's roof and that really said a lot.

Sitting in front of him on the other couch, so close on the ridiculously narrow waiting room their knees are almost touching, Redhead retrieves his book. After flipping through several pages, he presumably finds his place and silently resumes the reading Ferb must have interrupted. It takes him approximately thirty seconds to go from sitting upright to being sprawled out on the sofa. After further inspection Ferb concludes he is reading _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ which kind of throws him off. Western classics by Oscar Wilde are not the type of reading you'd expect from a Wildcat.

After that he waits in silence for ten ungodly minutes of aneurysm inducing silence that makes him want to go meet his dad's woman-friend-not-really-friend or maybe shove an old woman down a flight of stairs found only in New England lighthouses.

"Could you stop that?" It takes him a minute to realize that Mr. Classic Literature is talking to him. Ferb cocks his head in a 'stop what' kind of gesture. "Breathing."

He arches an eyebrow, but since Wildcat is not looking at him he forces his thoughts out loud. "That is sort of a morbid request."

Abercrombie kid looks up from his book, a broad grin slowly plastering on his face once again. Ferb really wants it to be annoying, really, because it feels like Redhead knows something he does not and there is something he is missing. He can't bring himself to.

"This book is kind of dull." Wildcat says then, out of nowhere, and Ferb does not know really what to respond. He nods, but politely does not disagrees. He kind of really likes Oscar Wilde.

Instead, he asks in his hoarse voice, "Then why are you reading it?"

Redhead hugs his legs, worn out jeans paling against the red and golden of his jacket. He seems to consider his answer. "Reading what only interests you is like denying the world's existence."

Ferb is surprised, but he doesn't let himself show it. Instead he asks nonchalantly, "What do you like to read?"

Kid pauses for a moment, biting his lip and Ferb tries to find him annoying again. Still nothing. "Biographies."

For some reason, he refrains from judging him. Words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself. He wonders why he isn't just nodding him off. "Favourite book?"

"_Through the Looking Glass_."

He notices the quirked up corner of his mouth after it is too late and Ferb can't take the smile back. "A children's book?"

"I like literary nonsense."

Ferb can't help himself. His voice is matter-of-factly borderline on sceptical. "And biographies."

Redhead's grin is daring. "Yes."

"That is some combination."

Kid shrugs, allows his fingers to run through his hair, slowly. It is getting long, but Ferb kind of likes it. "Do you read?"

He shrugs his shoulders, but can't help to answer out loud. "On occasions."

"What was the last thing you read?"

"_Slaughterhouse-Five_ by Kurt Vonnegut."

He let that one sink in. " 'Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.' "

Ferb nods, gives him a warm look. "It's a good book."

"You're prone to insanity."

That causes him to throw Abercrombie kid a sly smile. "I'm not going to argue with that."

"I see you've been having fun without me." Scott walks out the principal's office, stops on his tracks when he sees Ferb there waiting with Phineas Flynn. He does not sounds bitter or anything, just teasing, and Ferb turns his head sharply to look at him before rolling his eyes when Scott beats Miss LeFèvre and tells him in an overly sugary voice, "You can come in now, darling."

Ferb smacks him in the back of the head as he walks past him.

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Mr. Weinberg is sitting behind his desk, eating a healthy looking salad and tells him not to close the door. It makes Ferb feel sort of uneasy since Redhead is still six feet behind him on the waiting room and can probably hear every word of Mr. Weinberg's lecture on the proper way of speaking to teachers and most of all ladies. Not that he is self-conscious or anything.

Behind him, Ferb hears Redhead snorting and then a page turning. "This book is so fucking good."

Mr. Weinberg's shout of _Language, Flynn_ is not enough to stop the grin spreading through Ferb's face.

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><p><strong>Author's babblings:<strong> Those who review, you are lovely and I love you. Those who fave and run... Well, you aren't getting any cookies soon.

Also, I shamelessly admit I am an art nerd slash bully. Do/Did you fit into any label in high school? Or are/where you some odd mix like I am? Explain your answer in 200-250 words.

Please review. (Which is a very formal way of saying my ego likes being stroked.)


	3. Tonight, we are Young

For those of you who are aware of "alive with the Glory of love"'s pending to-be-or-not-to-be completed status, I am still thinking about it, but leaning only _slightly_ more towards to be.

(which is my way of saying, hey, I'm like, sorry it took me almost a year to updates. Whoopsy daisies.)

**Claim:** Punk!Rocker!Ferb/Popular!Jock!Phineas.

**Warnings:** Gratuitous smut for you in this chapter. But to be honest, this was already planned, so, err. Slash. A little tiny bit angst if you squint.

**Things I own:** nothing. Nothing, absolutely _nothing_. I own nothing. I know, I suck.

**Things I don't own: **We are Young, by Fun. But let's pretend Ferb does. Single parents. Magic remedies for drunk people. Slut cousins. Phineas. Ferb. Anyone and Everyone and Everything else mentioned in this story that has anything whatsoever to do with D*sney.

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><p><strong>alive with the Glory of love<strong>

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**.**

The moment the reception begins, there is an abundance of drinking.

(and seriously, this wedding's got the good stuff — not the foul tasting beer and cheap vodka he is used to drink at improvised teenage parties, but good Cabernet and _Rosé_ and Cognac and Whisky, oh _god_, he _loves_ Whisky.)

This is kind of why Ferb decides he could kinda like weddings.

One of the quirks of having a ridiculously sociable father, he concludes, is that everyone just sort of _knows him_ and when, in some cases, you need a good ol' crowd partying around so you will have time to make a little escapade into the lady's room to snog your groom's sister, you end up inviting that guy you sometimes talk to at Wal-Mart's gardening section.

(Or so Ferb thinks is the reason why he is currently wearing a suit he hasn't worn in literally _years_; the torso is too short, the arms are too tight, the shoulders are too narrow, and they pull the fabric at the back uncomfortably, making him shift awkwardly every now and then as he sits beside Lawrence on their assigned table, chatting about things he couldn't care less about even if he _tried_ with some other old people Ferb pretends he remembers when they come to him and tell him how much he has grown ever since they first saw him four years ago.)

Not that Ferb is one to judge, or anything. He just thinks that when there are going to be tons of happy fun memories you are going to sooner or later want to forget about (especially when, according to the gossipy grown-ups at his table, nobody signed pre-nups), offering plenty of alcohol probably warrantees that all the invited are going to be completely blank, or at least very unsure, of whatever it is that they did or did not witnessed.

Originally, Ferb had been planning ways to avoid the predictably loathsome social event with an excuse that went something along the lines of an important test coming up (because he is _that_ super subtle).

Maybe the small town way of thinking is rubbing off on him, but the thought of sitting in Lawrence's old but cared-for-as-one-would-care-for-a-newborn-baby Camaro, and ride a couple hours to the tri-state area (no way the truck could ever go that far), listening to a retro crap loop cycle from hell courtesy of that station the car's radio was forever condemned to — just to arrive to an unfamiliar city and miss dinner asking for directions to later spend the rest of the night sitting on a table on the corner wondering when the hell where they going to decide it was cake time, was not his first (or seventh, or twenty-fourth) choice to spend his Saturday night.

But then, as he and Lawrence stopped to casually greet Bob what's-his-name from where-was-that-again? while they did their weekly grocery shopping, slash father-and-son bonding time, and Ferb had heard who the bride and groom were going to be, well, let's just say he had a change of heart. People like that more often than not provoke scenes that nobody should miss.

Plus, the drinking.

So with those thoughts in mind did he went through absolutely everything he had previously decided was too obnoxious to go through, three and a half hours in the road, tight suit, old annoying people and all, just for the sake of free entertainment.

(He seriously has to reevaluate his choices in life.)

The wedding, though, with its tacky purple bridesmaid dresses and rehearsed bows went frighteningly smooth.

The reception began and not a speech went by without a slur; there even was a moment when the groom declared his eternal love for his newfound wife, and someone at the back (not Ferb, he swears — as much as he really, really wanted to) snorted loudly.

After that, the night falls into the average wedding settings — people dance and laugh and celebrate love while the bachelors realize how pathetic they are. Ferb, with his eighteen years of awesome living, is right in the point where he isn't young enough anymore to run around playing with the other kids, and isn't old enough yet for the pity party.

If at least he could find a single bridesmaid or female guest that is _roughly_ his age to maybe chat a little or, you know, snog a little, maybe, he'd considered the night not a complete waste, but most of the young ladies sport shiny gold bands in their fingers and the even younger ladies are a little under fifteen, and Ferb just kind of shudders at the disturbing, disturbing thought when one of them smiles as him in what he supposes she considers a flirty way and the amount of metal on her teeth almost blinds him.

He is beginning to feel disoriented.

(But it may have something to do with all the Brandy he's somehow been able to compact into his system.)

Luckily for him, he finds the open bar _just right_ before the disco music starts so the bartender is practically his to use and abuse. That is, of course, until he spots a red-haired boy sitting on one of the stools.

He walks a beeline.

"Aren't you a little young to be drinking," Ferb slurs, making a vague hand gesture with his wine glass. Oh, funny. He hadn't realized he still had the thing in his fingers.

Fun things do forty percent of alcohol by volume do to his brain, he concludes.

Phineas Flynn twirls in his seat with an irritated look on his face.

He looks nothing like Ferb does. Redhead wears a perfectly ironed black suit, white shirt and black tie and all, and his hair looks like he used a lot of hair gel to comb it backwards but now he's run his fingers through it so many times that it has gone back to its usual, dishevelled style. He is holding a neon pink martini glass full of something that looks really girly (seriously), with sugar on the rim, and the glower he is met with throws Ferb really, really off.

He had never before thought Redhead to be capable of such looks, but his intoxicated mind has not enough time to dwell on this thought before for the kid's expression goes from surprise to amusement, the moment he realizes who the hoarse slurred voice belongs to.

He raises an eyebrow. "Aren't you a little drunk to be drinking?" He asks instead, a lopsided smile plastering on his face carelessly; not at all intimidated by the way Ferb towers over him, his good 6'2 feet doing nothing to wipe the toothy grin out of his face.

He pulls the stool beside Kid and sits, and his back just _sort of_ gives up, so the side of his face ends up colliding with the marble surface of the bar. He asks, "What are _you_ doing here," and he doesn't think his tone is rude or anything, but it must have been because Redhead looks kind of taken aback.

He says, a little shyly, "The bride's my cousin."

Turning on his stool, his face still against the bar, Ferb comments, "Your family's really obnoxious."

Kid, who hasn't finished his neon girly drink, raises an eyebrow at him, pointedly.

Ferb shakes his head against the counter. It is so cold. So comforting. So dirty. Ugh. Adds, as if the explanation was even needed, "The bride is… _was_—was_ so_ inebriated even before the speeches were over… Also, she's a _slut_. "

Sadly, Ferb is too drunk to realize he is screwing up in a major way, so when Kid stares at him as if to ask, _are you serious_, before frowning and emptying the remaining of his drink over Ferb's head, it is entirely his fault.

The bartender places an identical drink next to Redhead, and one really has to wonder if he was here to help or not.

"And you are a sober Madonna, I believe." Kid mutters, drinking the refilled glass in a long swig. From his position on the counter, the light reflected on the boy's martini glass shines pink over his neck, making pretty patterns when his Adam's apple bobs as he drinks the last drop. Ferb doesn't know why he notices these little details, but he never does when he is sober so he might as well stop drinking like right. Now.

Not five seconds after that, though, Redhead bites his lip anxiously, blurs out, "God, I'm sorry." and with his sudden change of heart also comes harsh rubbing of a napkin over Ferb's still wet forehead. The drink probably had lots of sugar in it and the tiny grains scratch his skin uncomfortably. He mumbles a muted _ow_, and Kid blurts again a chirped, "sorry."

"God _fucking_ damnit..." He curses, feeling his skin throb in pain, just a little.

Redhead is playing with a new glass of girly drink over the countertop, but he isn't leaving, which is cool because Ferb doesn't know what else he is going to do if Kid leaves him on his own. He may feel like being an asshole, but he likes the company. It's weird.

"You know," Kid starts, avoiding his gaze, and slightly flushed. He is so weird – now he looks like he is a little embarrassed. "What brings you here." And Ferb wants to laugh because that's the cheesiest line he has heard in, like, eons. At least, that he remembers. It's not like he can trust his memory right now.

"My dad's fucking charisma." He answers, and can't help but grin a little. Its fucking true.

Redhead rolls his eyes, scoffing. "A family trait." He mutters, a little annoyed. Ferb admits he is not the best partner for conversation, but to his credit, he isn't really trying. It's already strange enough that he is out of town in a wedding talking to Phineas Flynn, of all people. Besides, he is drunk. Just for the record.

"I'll drink to that." He slurs, and because he is feeling a little sour for his ruined night, asks, "what brings _you_ here."

Kid gives him a funny look. "The bride's my _cousin_."

"That's no excuse."

Raising his head from the bar feels like bad idea the moment a wave of nausea hits him, but the bartender is already placing a glass of something red and tick next to his head. It smells like tomato and petroleum, and tastes worst when he takes a sip. _Prairie Oyster__. _Definitely.

He finishes it in a single swig and shudders at the taste.

With his mind a little clearer (probably due to the godawful taste rather than the detoxifying qualities of his drink), he looks up to meet sky blue eyes and a smile that now he can recognize as slightly off its hinges which can only mean one thing – Kid's finally has had one drink too many. Good. His soberness was starting to really annoy Ferb.

Redhead says, "You're chatty." And then he giggles.

Ferb sighs, raising an eyebrow. Decides not to dignify the comment with a proper answer. Just not to be predictable. Or something. Eyes instead the new neon pink drink Kid is about to chug down, snatches it out of his hand, and its awfully sweet taste makes Ferb cringe.

He asks the bartender for a bottle of Rosé. Goes, "drink this." And Kid looks at him for long seconds with questions in his eyes and something else that makes Ferb's stomach knot, not at all unpleasantly, before he obediently does. He ignores the feeling.

Maybe it's just that he can't stand the disco music anymore, or maybe the place is getting stuffy, or hot, or something, but he feels like going someplace less crowded kind of really badly, so he takes Redhead by the wrist and pulls him away from the bar and into the nearest exit.

.

.

.

He's never heard Phineas laugh quite this much.

They're in a long dark hallway outside the party hall, breathing fresh air next to one of the windows, sweaty and breathless and intoxicated – more Redhead than anyone, but Ferb is pretty dizzy himself and he thinks that maybe all that Rosé was a bad, bad idea. Honestly, he does not know what to do with himself – his limbs feel gawky and awkward, now that Phineas is practically in his arms. He is confused, but he isn't sure if that's why his stomach feels so tight.

Ferb is leaning with his back against the window glass, the surface cool and shivery against the back of his neck, his left arm draped carelessly over Redhead's back, holding him upright against him, and he is aware of how this may look to anyone who happens to pass by and look but he is a little afraid that if he lets him go Phineas might not be able to stand on his two feet like a big boy all by himself.

"Better than a rollercoaster, eh." Ferb comments, a little out of the blue.

He can feel his breath, cool over his neck when Phineas drawls, "When I… When I grow up, I want to be a— a rollercoaster engi— engine— engineer. Fuck."

Ferb stares at the ceiling. "For real."

"Yuup," Redhead sing songs, smiling against Ferb's neck. His fingers make a dangerous trail around his waist, before settling on the edge of his dress pants, thumbs pressing over the skin of his waist. _Handsy_.

He tries not to close his eyes because Phineas' mouth is pressed firmly against the place where his neck meets his jaw and _fuck_ if it doesn't feels _good _when he chuckles under his breath and his teeth graze his skin, not at all lightly. He manages, "You don't strike me as the rollercoaster engineer kind of chap." But his voice sounds kind of strained. He licks at his lips, and exhales slowly.

Kid laughs, and it's kind of a rich sound. He goes, "You're weird," and then, as an afterthought, barely a whisper mouthed against Ferb's skin, "I like that." But Ferb doesn't have time to argue that because Redhead is kissing his neck with a skill he didn't thought the kid had.

"Hey." He says, his hands stilling against Phineas' sides. He can't help sighing when Phineas bites him a little, (_fuck_, he likes teeth); can't help closing his eyes a little. "Hey." He says again, and swallows.

Ferb knows what kisses like that mean.

He is not a sober Madonna, after all. He hasn't been above sleeping with drunk girls who were asking for it in the past, but this is not a girl, and this isn't an improvised teenage party either; this is Phineas Flynn practically throwing himself into Ferb's arms, and that is what, in the end, snaps his rational mind into attention. He presses at Redhead's shoulders, firmly.

He laughs, nervously, feeling like rubbing the spot on his neck. He hopes it won't leave a mark.

"Did you know alcohol is supposed to kill your sex drive." He comments, voice a little breathless. Ignoring the way Phineas' hands are pressed firmly against the flushed skin of his back. Anyone else would take it as suggestions. "Let's go back inside."

.

.

.

"Phineas' got zero alcohol tolerance. When we were younger," chick redhead is saying, trying to speak over the sound of the blaring music. "He couldn't even handle Vodka gummy bears. I can't believe you found him throwing up."

Ferb shrugs his shoulders, looking like he couldn't care less. He thinks he's lucky Phineas looks so much like his older sister, or he wouldn't have known what to do with him. Right now he just wants him to be somebody else's problem.

"Thanks, bro." She tells him, but it sounds a little like she's trying to shrug him off. Ferb nods and watches both of the redheads walk away.

He sits on an empty table nearby, because now he's not sure what to do with himself. The napkins are soft and elegant, and they say _let's raise a toast, 'cause I've found somebody to carry me home _in golden handwriting meant to impress the shit out of whoever sees them_._

He takes a pen from his blazer and writes, _so if by the time the bar closes, and you feel like falling down, i'll carry you home. tonight, we are young__. _

_He isn't sure where they come from, and it sounds just a little like pretty words put together, but he shoves the napkin in his pocket and hopes he'll figure out soon._

.

.

In the end, the inevitable comes and Lawrence tricks him into believing they're going to Wal-Mart, driving instead like a madman until Ferb thinks the devil's come right from hell to possess his father and kill them both in a horrible car accident. It takes Ferb a second or twenty two to uncurl his stiff fists from the car's belt, when he realizes they've parked right before a house he's seen a thousand times but has never really been in.

"How cute," Lawrence's girlfriend beams, the moment he walks past the doorframe, her perfectly manicured hand raising to touch her cheek gracefully.

She is… Cute. A lot shorter than Ferb, and definitely not how he imagined her. She looks like the kind of mum who would let her kids sleep late and build projects in the backyard.

It's hard not to like her.

"My son's in the backyard," She says, once she realizes Ferb is not the talkative type. She doesn't presses him on the issue. "Maybe he can show you around a little, okay, honey?"

Ferb nods and leaves them alone through the kitchen door. He doesn't think he can stand a second more of the middle age flirting. It makes him a little sick to think Lawrence fell out of love so easily.

The sun is already turning the horizon into an inky sunset by the time he reaches the swings, and the boy sitting in them.

"Hey," Ferb says, standing there, glum as ever. "Got room for another person?"

Phineas turns, looking as much in misery as Ferb feels, and sighs. "How serious do you think they are?"

Ferb considers this for long moments, as he swings absently. "Very."

They sit together in silence until the sun sets completely.

**Author's babblings:** The twenty something reviews of this story have more content than the two hundred of that twilight thing I wrote when I was like thirteen. Which is my way of saying, please review, because I'm hoplesssly in love with you all.

Ferb is so chatty in this chapter- I hate it. He is drunk, though. I must also admit the trope Hideous Hangover Cure was shamelessly used in this chapter – probably stolen from The Parent Trap.

By the way, who are you dying to see in this story? Particularly, I'm trying to see how to get Vanessa into all this. Next chapter is on its way, which is my way of saying its going to take less than a year. Proably. Hopefully.


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